


The Chain

by interrupting_cow



Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: Light Angst, Light Bondage, M/M, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 10:09:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10215500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interrupting_cow/pseuds/interrupting_cow
Summary: Bill wants to chain Tom up. Tom is not enthusiastic





	

  
  
After a slow start, Bill has discovered sex.  
  
Weird sex.  
  
It is, of course, entirely in character for Bill to launch himself wholeheartedly into the less ordinary side of whatever his latest interest is, whether it be hairstyles, clothes or the pleasures of the flesh, and Tom finds himself subjected to a lengthy monologue on the merits of the various positions and practices which are currently occupying his brother's thoughts, which he doesn't mind, because he likes to listen to Bill talk, and he nods politely in all the right places, and doesn't laugh at any of Bill's more egregious anatomical misunderstandings.  
  
Bill bemoans the fact that most people are content to settle for heterosexual intercourse in the missionary position, in a bed, with the lights off, when there is so much else available to the discerning individual.  
  
Privately, Tom does not think that the rest of humanity is quite as conservative in its habits as Bill imagines and, heretically, he also thinks that there's a lot to be said for beds and mish posish and good old Tab A in Slot B, not least because the alternatives have more drawbacks than Bill is prepared to acknowledge. When they browse the online version of the Kama Sutra together, giggling like naughty children, his brother sees a world of exciting possibilities. Tom sees a potential visit to a chiropractor.  
  
Bill's new-found embrace of variety encompasses not only the sexual practices themselves, but also the individuals he wishes to perform them with. He pronounces that he is wholly open-minded as to the gender of his potential partners, and that the world would be a better place if everyone thought the same way.  
  
To this end he makes Tom promise that if Tom ever finds a man sexually attractive he will consider having sex with him.  
  
Tom actually has no problem agreeing to this, because all his sexual fantasies are of women, with their soft globes of flesh, silky hair and sweet scent. Men are too hard and hairy and angular and strange to be objects of lust. His head never turns to following a passing male stranger in the street, and he never imagines removing a man's clothing to discover what wobbling delights lie beneath. But it makes Bill happy to hear him affirm this policy, at least in theory, and Tom likes making Bill happy.  
  
Bill continues to expound on the necessity for all aspects of his life, and this one in particular, to reflect both the freedom and heady non-conformism they have pursued since childhood.  
  
“I mean, I don't want my sex life to be… _conventional!_ ”  
  
Tom can almost feel the shudder as Bill utters this word, which is anathema to his brother's entire being.  
  
“Don't worry, Bill,” he says fondly, “No-one is ever going to accuse you of that.”  
  
Bill does not reply, being otherwise occupied. It's true, though, thinks Tom, not least because at that very moment his brother is performing fellatio on an exact genetic replica of himself, and while he is not naive enough to believe that they are the only practitioners of this particular vice, he is sure that it is a fairly exclusive club.  
  
Bill's naked body is not strange at all; it is exactly the same as his own, and his hair is soft, even the hair on his body and face. The hair on Bill's head is currently the colour of raw silk and contrasts sharply with the dark thatch around Tom's groin. Tom closes his eyes and concentrates on the sensation of his brother's hot, wet mouth around his erection and his brother's hands pressing down firmly on his thighs, and wonders again if he ought to feel guilty, and if so, for what?  
  
They could be his own hands. If he cut off his own hands and transplanted them to Bill's arms, they would grow there happily, like a grafted rose-bush, without any need for anti-rejection drugs, leaving only a thin scar as an indication, and would it be incest then, or merely masturbation? Sometimes Tom hates himself for being such a sick fuck who thinks of such things.  
  
The suddenness of his orgasm takes him by surprise.  
  


********

  
Bill wants to role play his sexual fantasy.

Tom is not enthusiastic, because he does not like the idea of acting out sexual fantasies. Doing so renders them banal and impotent. It robs them of their power and magic and their potential. It makes them that most unsexy of things - laughable. Sex should not be funny. Comedians and jokes should be funny. Fantasies should remain in the head, where they can remain perfect and unsullied. They do not, in Tom's experience, survive contact with the real world.

Bill wants to tie Tom up and dominate him and Tom groans inwardly, for this is the most banal and commonplace fantasy of all. Everyone he has ever had sex with wants to do this. Everyone imagines that that they are the very first person to think of it, and that they are somehow being uniquely transgressive. Everyone has read that godawful book. Amidst a sea of faceless would-be dominators the only one that sticks in Tom's memory is the woman who wanted him to get down on his knees wearing a dress and bark like a dog.

In the many dull moments on tour, when the band discuss all manner of inappropriate things, Tom has recounted this anecdote when the conversation turned to weird sexual encounters, and everyone laughed.

“What did you say?” Georg asked, amused.

“I said I'd think about it.” Tom replied.

Unfortunately, he has.

The second most commonplace fantasy is to have a threesome with him and Bill.

Tom is sure there are any number of attractive young people in LA who would be more than happy to indulge Bill in his current bondage fantasy, but Bill wants to tie him up and dominate him, so Tom sighs and agrees.

The box is delivered the next day. It clinks metallically when Tom shakes it, but he doesn't open it. If there is a whip in there as well, he is going to say no. He is okay with saying no to things he is not okay with. He has a strategy for deflecting unwanted sexual advances from either sex; on the first instance, he simply feigns ignorance and pretends he has not understood what the innuendo/arm touch/exposed penis means.

If they persist, he is polite and friendly and says No in a way that cannot be interpreted in any way other than No. Mostly by using the word No. Experience has taught him that there is no point in trying to spare people's feelings by being equivocable, they will simply misinterpret anything less than an unambiguous No as a Maybe, and a Maybe as a Yes.

If they still persist after that, he is neither polite nor friendly.

Tom does not understand why people want to hurt each other during sex. Or pretend to hurt each other. It's all the same. There are enough opportunities for hurting and being hurt in ordinary everyday life without having to transfer the hurt to what should be a safe haven from pain and violence. Tom is sure that all the individuals who fondly harbour the notion of being whipped or beaten in a romantic liaison have never had a fist to the face in real life; have never been cornered by a group of thugs armed with muscles and malice; have never lain on the ground curled into a protective ball as boots thud into ribs and groin; have never stayed there longer than necessary in order to give their brother a chance to escape.

There is no whip in the box, only several lengths of metal chain, shiny links gleaming brightly in the LA sunshine, and a metal collar, hinged at one side and fastened by a key at the other. Bill smiles with delight as he removes it from the box and holds it up for Tom to examine.

“Do you remember that photo-shoot we did?” he asks, fingering the links of the chain suggestively, looking up at his brother from underneath those astonishingly long lashes.

Tom nods vaguely. He has no idea which photo-shoot Bill is referring to. They have done so many. Often they end up in sexually ambiguous poses. Its as if the photographers can sense the tension between them, can smell it in the air like an approaching electrical storm, and want to capture it with their art.

“I think the photographer had a bit of a thing for you,” Bill smirks and wraps the chain around both his hands, and tugs on it twice, testing its strength.

Tom does recall one photo-shoot, early on in their career, still innocent, when the photographer kept him back after the others had left - _“… just a few more Tom. Just turn your head that way. Just open your mouth a little. Just look at me...”_ \- and afterwards hearing him say something to the assistant about his _private collection_ and wondering what he meant.

“Don't be silly, nobody even looks at me when you're around.”

Bill smiles delightedly, and blushes very slightly, even though he knows it isn't true.

**********

  
The floor is hard and uncomfortable, and Tom squirms on his haunches, trying and failing to find a less awkward position. The metal collar around his neck is heavy and constricting and the chain attached to the ring at the front adds yet more weight. Tom can feel it with every movement of his head, pulling him downwards. The other end of it is held in Bill's hand, and if Bill so chooses he can either lift it and relieve the dragging weight, or pull on it and cause the collar to bite more deeply into Tom's neck. Bill does neither of these things as he is too busy admiring his leather-clad reflection in an adjacent mirror.

The leather is not real, of course. Neither are the snakeskin boots. Real animal skins have been forfeited along with animal flesh when the two of them embraced vegetarianism, and Tom still believes this has been the greater sacrifice for Bill. Nevertheless, Bill has chosen his attire carefully for this scenario, as he always does. Bill looks every inch the sexual being he imagines himself to be.

Tom does not look or feel sexy, squirming down on the floor at Bill's feet with his long legs splayed inelegantly, like a new-born colt attempting to stand for the first time. Tom feels ridiculous. He wonders why he agreed to do this, but he already knows the answer to that. He knows that he doesn't have to do it, that Bill would not mind if he unclipped the stupid collar and pulled it off and threw it across the hard tiled floor along with the stupid chain.

Bill pulls a face, sensing his brother's discomfiture.

“You don't have to do this, you know. You don't have to do it just for me. If you want to take it off, I don't mind.”

Tom likes it when Bill voices the thoughts in his own head. It makes him feel less alone. It reminds him that there is at least one person in the universe who understands him. Sometimes all it takes is one word single word uttered by one of them to trigger a cascade of memory, and they will erupt in simultaneous laughter. Or some other less agreeable emotion. They have a whole shared history to mine, the good and the bad.

All those days, those years, stretch out behind them, from the present to the past, each one forming a link in the chain that binds the two of them together, forged from their shared lives.

Tom wishes he could protect Bill from all the cruel and hurtful things other people have in store for him. He wants to warn his brother about the creeps and the perverts and the flashers and the sociopaths, and the people who will make you get down on your knees and bark like a dog, but he knows that he cannot make Bills mistakes for him, or suffer his hurts for him, and that makes him sad, because he truly would, if he could.

“Why do you want to do this anyway,” Tom asks, genuinely puzzled. He runs his finger underneath the collar to alleviate the discomfort. Already a red circle is appearing around his neck.

Bill shrugs.

“I don't know. The way people described it, it sounded exciting. Dangerous. Erotic.” He pushes a non-existent stray hair back into place over his temples and snatches another quick glance at his reflection in the mirror, hoping Tom will not notice. Tom notices.

“And is it?” Tom asks

Bill rests his hand gently on Tom's head, his fingernails black and polished. He looks down at his brother with affection, and slowly a smile spreads over his face.

“No,” he says, “You look ridiculous.”

***********

The bed is soft and comfortable, a welcome change from the hard floor, and the pillow under his neck infinitely more relaxing than the metal collar, now lying discarded in the corner, along with the chain.

Bill carefully unknots the messy ball of hair at the nape of Tom's neck and lets it spill down over his shoulders and back. He combs his fingers through it, from top to bottom, taking satisfaction in the knowledge that he is allowed to do this, then his hands continue their journey and find their way to the small of Tom's back, where they poke and prod at his brother's flesh in an exploratory manner. Tom does not complain, even though Bill's proddings are not entirely gentle.

“If you ever needed a kidney transplant, you could have one of mine.” Bill tells him earnestly.

Tom smiles to himself. Bill's not infrequent announcements of the sacrifices he would be willing to make for his brother may tend to the dramatic, but they are no less heartfelt for that.

“You wouldn't need drugs or anything. It would be a perfect match.” He pauses, and then adds softly, “I know you'd do the same for me.”

“Of course I would, Bill,” Tom replies with quiet intensity. “I would do anything for you, Bill. You know that.”

There is no need to chain him up.

He is already in chains.


End file.
